Taken Too Soon

by Edith Maxwell

  As we went, we passed a field with a team of oxen pulling a mowing device, the farmer trudging behind. We crested a rocky hill clad in nothing more than scrubby plants and stone walls. Sadie steered the horse around a slow-moving span buggy. It featured extra-wide axles, which Sadie explained made it easier to traverse the sandy roads of this terrain.

  The uneven road jogged my brain’s thoughts, too. Sometime soon I should interview Reuben more closely. He could have been responsible for the pregnancy. Had anyone asked him outright if he was? Having little means to care for a family, he could have argued with Frannie. I also wondered if Joseph was back from his trip. I thought Zerviah had said he had left before Frannie died. Was she telling the truth?

  And then there was Hazel. According to Brigid, Hazel was a laudanum addict, a girl angry about her friend taking up with a boy, someone who had lied about more than one thing. Could she be involved? From what I’d learned talking with David about the soporific effects of laudanum, I doubted the drug alone would push Hazel to kill, unless she was agitated from a lack of it.

  I had to discount Tilly as the cause of Frannie’s death, despite Edwin’s suspicion she might be. After learning Frannie’s heritage, I knew in my heart my aunt could not possibly have killed her own granddaughter, not for any reason under the sun, not even accidentally.

  When we found Currie today—if we did—would he speak truth or lie to me in self-protection? If he had impregnated Frannie, he might have thought it would ruin his life for her to bear his child and make the father’s name public. It would change his life, certainly, but if he’d killed to prevent such a change, David would be devastated. I knew that as well as I knew myself.

  The stakes would be higher, in a way, if the guilty party was Abial Latting, who had far more to lose than Currie. I supposed being a Friend didn’t make men immune from acting irresponsibly, but our faith had a strong belief in comporting oneself peaceably without violence. Every person had that of God in him or her and was equal in God’s eyes. We learned from a young age that to harm a child of God was to also harm God. Being a Friend should have prevented Abial from committing a violent act. And yet, people violated the tenets of their faith regularly, no matter which religion they practiced.

  A double jolt jostled me back to the present. I looked around. In my reverie I hadn’t even noticed we’d entered Falmouth proper, where we’d just crossed the railroad tracks. The town here was thickly settled, with a mixture of houses, shops, and journeymen. We passed the open door of a blacksmith’s forge. A little farther along a woman sat outside mending a sail, its white canvas spread out around her like a giant skirt.

  “Sadie, what does thee know about Abial Latting’s family?” I inquired.

  “Why does thee ask?” She slowed the horse to a walk.

  “I have learned a few curious things about him. Is he married? Does he have children, and if so, how old are they? He appeared to be unaccompanied at Meeting for Worship.”

  “He was married. It’s not a pretty story, Rose.” She gave a quick turn of her head toward the back, then focused on the road again, lowering her voice to a near whisper. “Marie’s asleep, so I’ll tell thee in confidence. Abial’s wife died five years ago. The circumstances were a bit murky. After that, his son argued constantly with his father when he reached maturity and then left abruptly to attend Haverford College. He has not been seen in town since. The daughter was younger.”

  Was? A chill overtook me, one unrelated to the weather. “How old is the girl?” I prayed Abial hadn’t been preying on his own daughter, old enough to have become a woman.

  “She was sixteen when her brother left. None of us quite knew what went on in the household, except a sister of the late mother came to town one day and swept the girl away with her.”

  At least the daughter hadn’t also died under murky circumstances. But had the aunt fetched her to hide a pregnancy, as had happened with Tilly? Or to rescue her from her own father’s advances? “So Abial now lives alone?”

  “Well, he has a housekeeper, of course. A man like him doing for himself? I can’t fathom it. A nice local woman.” She snorted. “He apparently asked the Indian midwife if she would take care of the house and the cooking, and she refused.”

  “I can understand why. And Joseph Baxter is his handyman,” I said, picturing Zerviah and her family in the cottage behind the mansion.

  “He is.”

  What if Joseph hadn’t actually been out of town, but had been doing Abial’s dirty work for him, instead? If Abial had wanted Frannie killed but didn’t want to sully his own hands, would Joseph have carried out his order?

  “Whoa, Miss Brooks,” Sadie said, pulling up in front of an ornate four-story brick structure.

  The opera house stood at the end of the main thoroughfare. David and I must have missed it during our stroll two days ago. It was every bit as beautiful an edifice as the one in Amesbury, which hosted all kinds of public events not restricted to opera. Political parties had even held rallies in it shortly before the presidential election last fall.

  “Are we here?” Marie asked, startled. “I think I dozed off. I was up late with Mother last night.”

  “We have arrived,” Sadie said. “Let us see what we shall see. Yes, ladies?”

  “Yes.” If I were one to indulge in superstitions, I might have crossed my fingers and done whatever else people do to ensure a good outcome. As it was, I took a deep breath, straightened my spine, and climbed down out of the carriage.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  We waited in the lobby of the opera house while a deferential young fellow went in search of the owner. The walls were ornately decorated, with gilt edging various curlicues on the trim. The ceiling was painted a deep cerulean blue, evoking the color of twilight. Marie seemed awestruck by the richly elaborate designs, but to me they were too fancy to enjoy. The walls also bore large posters in frames advertising coming performances, including Much Ado About Nothing next month, a rousing Shakespeare play I had viewed in Newburyport last year. No burlesque dancers here, that was clear.

  “Marie,” I began, “I haven’t had a chance to ask thee how thy conversation with the detective went.”

  She looked startled at my words and blinked for a moment before she answered. “It was fine. He asked why I didn’t speak up sooner, and he seemed frustrated I couldn’t identify either person in the boat.”

  “I’m sure he was,” I said. “No more details have come to thee since? Were the occupants of the boat male or female? Did thee see the color of a garment or the shape of a hat, say?”

  “I really couldn’t tell if I saw men or women.” She narrowed her eyes, peering into the distance, as if it helped her picture the scene on the water. “Perhaps there was a flat hat on one and maybe dark hair on the other?”

  Frannie had had dark hair, and if Reuben’s hat was like his father’s it was a flat cap.

  “But I could be wrong,” she added. “I was not at all close to the boat.”

  “Sadie,” I said, “did Frannie wear a bonnet like other Friends?”

  “Of course she had one, but the girl was forever going around with the bonnet hanging down her back by the strings. It drove Tilly to distraction.” Sadie’s own bonnet today was of a fine midnight blue lawn matching her dress.

  “Mrs. Gifford, how splendid to see you again.” A silver-haired gentleman approached Sadie with both hands outstretched. “You are looking lovely, as always. She and her husband are longtime benefactors of the opera house,” he told Marie and me. The man was dressed as elegantly as his theater, wearing an impeccably tailored suit, gold cufflinks, and a crimson brocade bow tie.

  “Wesley, thank thee for seeing us with not a word of forewarning.” Sadie clasped his hands for a moment, then released them. “May I present my friends Rose Dodge and Marie Deorocki? Rose, Marie, this is Wesley Stewart, owner of this beautiful theater.”

  He gave a little bow. “Please come with me to my office, ladies.”

 
; We followed him, his heels clicking on the polished marble floor, through a hallway wallpapered in red brocade. He ushered us into a sumptuously appointed room with a wide desk at one end next to a sitting area. Armchairs upholstered in red leather clustered about a low table. This was definitely not a burlesque theater, although I did spy a cabinet with decanters of amber-colored liquids and several stemmed glasses out at the ready. The room smelled faintly of tobacco and a masculine eau de cologne.

  “Please sit. Shall I ring for tea, or perhaps you’d prefer something stronger. I have sherry, cognac, and whiskey.” Wesley laughed. “I know you’ll refuse me, Mrs. Gifford, but maybe these ladies will keep me company in an afternoon tipple?”

  Or maybe this wasn’t so removed from the other theater, if the man was eager to drink in the middle of the afternoon. I was sure if Currie was here, he’d readily take Wesley up on his offer.

  “I don’t mind if I do, Mr. Stewart,” Marie said.

  Sadie glanced at her in surprise. “I would love a cup of tea, please.”

  “Of course. Would sherry suit, Mrs. Deorocki?” he asked.

  “Thank you, yes.”

  “Something for you, Mrs. Dodge?” Wesley asked.

  “I thank thee,” I said. “I would like a simple glass of water, if thee has it.”

  “Another Quaker, are you?”

  “Yes, Wesley.” I folded my hands in my lap. He might have been able to discern my faith from my plain dress and bonnet, but apparently didn’t. Women who were not Friends also dressed in this fashion, of course.

  He pulled a small lever in the wall, which summoned the young man from before. Wesley gave him the tea and water order before pouring himself and Marie a full glass each from one of the decanters.

  Once we were all settled with our drinks, Wesley crossed his legs, clasped his hands atop his knee in a dainty gesture, and beamed. “What can I help you ladies with today? Were you wanting a tour of the opera house, or do we have more pressing business?”

  “Rose here is trying to find her brother-in-law, whom she recently met,” Sadie began. “Rose, thee should explain.”

  I thought for a moment how to approach the topic. “My new husband, David, and I came to West Falmouth a few days ago to console my aunts, whose ward is recently deceased.”

  “Oh, my.” Our host fanned himself, brown eyes wide. “Do you mean the girl who was murdered?” His voice was hushed.

  “Yes,” I said. “Thee has heard.”

  “Well, who hasn’t? But what has this to do with the Falmouth Opera House, if you don’t mind my asking?”

  I cleared my throat. “My husband’s brother is Herbert Dodge, but he goes by the sobriquet Currie. My husband was called home suddenly this morning, and he tasked me with finding Currie. We hadn’t yet learned the location of Currie’s residence in Wood’s Holl, but he’d told us he worked for the, ah, other theater here in Falmouth.”

  At this Wesley blinked and lifted his chin slightly, gazing away from us at the corner of the room, an odd reaction to a simple statement.

  “Wesley, does thee know the manager at the other theater, or anyone who might know how to reach Currie Dodge?” Sadie asked. “It would help Rose immensely.”

  He emptied his glass and let out a noisy breath before regarding us again. “As it turns out, I happen to also own the burlesque theater.”

  Sadie stared. I suppressed a smile at Wesley’s discomfort. I didn’t care what theaters the man owned, but Sadie was clearly shocked.

  Marie lifted her glass, also now empty. “I told these ladies burlesque isn’t so scandalous as some make it out to be,” she said. “Could I trouble you for another drop, sir?” Her smile was already a bit sloppy.

  “Of course, of course. Forgive me for not noticing.” Wesley covered his unease by bustling over to the drinks cabinet and refilling both glasses. He faced Sadie. “I see you are displeased, Mrs. Gifford. It was a simple business decision to acquire the theater when it was about to go under. Running a respectable opera house and a somewhat-less-so burlesque theater require many of the same skills, equipment, and staff. It really wasn’t as far-fetched a move as it might appear.”

  Sadie gave herself a little shake. “Please don’t worry about my reaction, Wesley. I am not so prudish a Quaker as thee might imagine. Perhaps I’ll take in a burlesque show myself one of these days.” She gave a little smile.

  He harrumphed. “Be that as it may. As for the question of Mr. Currie Dodge’s whereabouts, I daresay he’s over at the other theater now. We have a performance tonight. Shall I telephone for him to join us?”

  I held up a hand. “I would prefer to proceed directly there and speak with him in situ, if it’s all the same to thee, Wesley,” I said in a rush. If summoned, who knew if Currie would actually appear? If he had anything to hide, he might evade a confrontation with us, or at least with me. Perhaps my logic was faulty, since ostensibly I simply wanted to convey the message about his mother. “Would this be possible?”

  “Certainly. I shall escort you ladies over myself.” He stood, pulling his suit coat straight. “Whenever you all are ready.”

  Marie gave a panicked look at her glass and drank the contents down in one gulp. She stood, grinning, but swayed a bit and grabbed the back of a chair. “What an adventure we’re having, eh, girls?”

  Chapter Thirty-three

  We strolled with Wesley the few blocks to the burlesque theater. He’d offered his arm to Marie, for which I was grateful. She wasn’t a large woman, and two glasses of sherry downed quickly in succession had about done her in.

  Sadie and I followed them as Wesley turned down a side road. Here the more genteel face of Falmouth’s main street turned grittier. The buildings in this neighborhood clearly either housed people hard at work for little pay, those down on their luck, or both. Garbage littered the street, while grimy urchins kicked a ball made of rags tied into a rough sphere. Two women wearing low-cut gowns stood in suggestive poses on the other side of the street, faces caked with powder, eyes lined with kohl.

  “Three new ones, Mr. Stewart?” one called, setting her hand on a cocked hip. “You trying to make me jealous, honey?”

  Marie shrank behind Wesley as if afraid the woman would snatch her off the street. Sadie shot me an amused glance.

  Wesley’s face reddened as he cleared his throat. “Please ignore her,” he muttered to us, then pointed to a sign. “I know the street isn’t much, ladies, but it’s quite a reputable theater, for its type.”

  The sign, in garish red and black letters, proclaimed Cape Cod Burlesque Theater, with “Finest in New England” etched below. Wesley tried the door but found it locked. He beat his fist on it as we waited. He grumbled under his breath, and I thought I heard a muttered expletive slip out.

  Finally he shouted, “Mr. Dodge. Open the door!”

  A window upstairs flew open and a coatless Currie leaned out. His face paled when he saw us. I smiled and waved at him.

  “Hey, Currie baby, you got fancy lady callers,” one of the prostitutes called.

  “And the big cheese, too,” the other added.

  “Perhaps I won’t be taking in one of these shows, after all,” Sadie murmured to me.

  “One moment, Mr. Stewart,” Currie said in a panicked voice before slamming down the window.

  It wasn’t long before Currie unlocked the door and pulled it open. He’d slid into a coat, but his tie was as askew as his hair, and his feet were shod only in stockings.

  “What the devil are you up to in here?” Wesley demanded. “The door is to be unlocked and the ticket office open and doing business the afternoon before a show. You were supposed to be working, Mr. Dodge.” He detached from Marie, pushed Currie aside, and strode into the theater.

  This was a different side to Wesley than the genteel theater owner we’d met. He was obviously also a manager one would not wish to cross. I followed him in.

  “Hello, Currie,” I said.

  Sadie took Marie’s arm. Currie s
hut the door once we were all in the lobby. The light was dim from several weak electrical bulbs in sconces but provided enough illumination to show walls plastered with posters, a shabby carpet, and dingy woodwork. Double doors likely led to the theater proper. Wesley, Sadie, and Marie faced away from a staircase, which ended next to another door labeled Exit.

  A young woman in a respectable dress crept down the stairs with eyes wide and shoes in her hands. I glanced at Currie, who clearly saw her, but jammed his hands in his pockets and looked determinedly only at his employer. The tiptoer eased opened the Exit door. If it creaked, both she and Currie were done for. I held my breath. But the hinges were silent, and she slipped away. Maybe Currie had oiled the door on purpose.

  “This lady wishes to speak with you,” Wesley addressed Currie, gesturing at me. “And then I plan to have a word or a dozen with you myself.” His scowl could have scoured a dirty pan, it was that rough. “Let me show you other ladies where the performances take place.” He led Sadie and Marie through one of the double doors.

  I stepped next to Currie and waited until the door shut before speaking. “Thee took quite a risk, having thy girl slip out under Wesley’s nose.”

  “Don’t I know it?” He shook his head. “I really need to mend my ways. But how was I to know he’d descend on the place like he did?” He focused on me. “Why are you here anyway?”

  “I’m afraid I have some bad news, Currie.” I touched his arm. “David received a telegram from thy father early this morning. It seems thy mother has fallen gravely ill.”

  Currie’s mouth turned down but he didn’t speak.

  “David left on the first train to Boston. He asked me to find thee. He prays thee will join Herbert and him at Clarinda’s side.”

  “Knowing my mother, I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s only pretending to be ill, in a pathetic attempt to lure me home.” His expression turned sour. “You don’t know her, Rose. She’s capable of such a trick.”